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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368907">make sure you kiss your knuckles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfynches/pseuds/goldfynches'>goldfynches</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>townie 'verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Closeted Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Inspired by Richard Siken, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violence, also inspired by mitski, and barbara kruger, and chuck palanhiuk, and the front bottoms, gay traumaTM, it's the barest comfort, nothing gets solved here, teen mac and dennis, theyre both closeted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:34:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfynches/pseuds/goldfynches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>he used to get nosebleeds every summer, like clockwork, but he hasn't had one for a few years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>townie 'verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>make sure you kiss your knuckles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>when the front bottoms said "make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face"<br/>and richard siken said "i'm sorry about the blood in your mouth, i wish it was mine"<br/>and mitski said "if your hands need to break more than trinkets in your room, you can lean on my arm as you break my heart"<br/>and chuck palanhiuk said "i felt like destroying something beautiful"<br/>and barbara kruger said "you construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Blood drips onto his bare feet. Dennis stares down, at each little red blotch landing on his pale skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip. Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaguely, he thinks of another summer, another him, stepping on glass. He’d howled then, a wounded animal sitting in his throat, and Dee had rolled her eyes behind her magazine. Frank told him not to bleed on the new upholstery on the drive to the hospital. He’d watched too closely when the nurse stitched the gash shut and forced himself to walk normally because stepping on glass made a lame story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn't glass. There’s glass on the floor elsewhere because he threw a bottle at Mac. He doesn’t remember it. The memory is glazed over. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dennis?” There are tears in Mac’s voice and blood on his knuckles and Dennis isn’t looking at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis is looking at his feet, at the blood. He wonders if his nose is broken. The idea makes his chest twist. If it’s crooked, he’ll kill Mac with the shards of beer bottle on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dennis, I’m-” Mac seems to catch himself, swallowing the words he wants to say, “Can you fucking say something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis swallows and he tastes the blood in the back of his throat. He used to get nosebleeds every summer, like clockwork, but he hasn’t had one for a few years. This is a return to tradition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need a cigarette.” Dennis says finally, and Mac thinks he sounds like he has a cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A cigarette? Jesus- Den, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>bleeding.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip. Drip. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As if on cue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis finally looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac isn’t bleeding, but he looks like a car hit him. His eyes are wet, his face is blotchy, it looks like he’s been dragging his hands through his hair. Dennis wonders if his hands are sticky - he knows how much hair gel Mac uses, he’s berated him for it more than once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis swallows again. It doesn’t hurt. It should. He thinks he should be worried that he wants it to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need a cigarette.” He repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s eyebrows are pinched together in worry, that little familiar crease appearing between them. He looks like he’s about to speak, before giving in and patting his pockets for the box. He fishes out a smoke and a lighter, and freezes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s ten feet between them. A minefield Mac doesn’t want to cross. He can’t toss them over to Dennis, Dennis’ hands shake where they hang at his sides, and Mac has had too much beer. He stares at the space between them, for long enough that it feels like Dennis is about to snap at him to hurry up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp words don’t come, and he crosses anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Caesar crossing the Rubicon with the taste of cheap beer in his mouth and the breath fluttering in his lungs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis doesn’t move as Mac steps in front of him, he doesn’t raise a finger to take the cigarette and lighter held out to him. He looks dazed in a way that makes Mac worry, for just a second, that he managed to fuck up his brain with that punch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Den?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis blinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac holds his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis takes the cigarette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac lets out the breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Light it for me.” This is a different Dennis. There’s no authority in his voice, it almost sounds like a plea. It’s a kind of Dennis that normal Dennis would sneer at, call pathetic. Mac refuses to slot those puzzle pieces together. It’s not his business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he cups the flame on his shitty Bic lighter that takes a couple flicks to crackle to life and lights Dennis’ cigarette. The filter is already red, like a lipstick print clinging to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis takes a drag, and it’s like the first real breath he’s taken since the punch. He wouldn’t know for certain, he doesn’t remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worried look on Mac’s face isn’t going away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got blood all over you.” He murmurs, and Dennis tells himself it’s awe instead of tenderness. He doesn’t know what to do with tenderness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing Dennis can say to that. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches the smoke as he exhales. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac glances around the yard. It feels like they’ve been plunged into the dead of night. The light from the kitchen, spilling over the stone is stark and sickly, not warm like it had been a moment ago. The broken pieces of glass catch that light and glint. They are his diamonds. Cigarette butts float on the surface of the pool that seems too still for the earthquake that has ripped through the both of them. There’s a creeping chill, or maybe that’s the adrenaline leaving his body so fast he feels winded. Dennis smokes in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shucking off his shirt, Mac steps over to the edge of the pool. He takes more pleasure than he should in shattering the glass, in sending ripples across the water when he dips his shirt into it. He wonders if that’s how Dennis felt when he threw the bottle and heard it smash on the stone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac goes over, because Dennis won’t come to him. Dennis still isn’t moving, beyond lifting his left hand to his lips, beyond the rise and fall of his chest as he inhales, exhales. The hands that punched him are gentle now, batting his left hand away from his mouth and cupping his chin. The blood is warm in Mac’s palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The sinner washing the feet of Christ, his eyes stinging with tears and his chest aching.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The water is probably filthy but Dennis can’t bring himself to care. It’s cold and Mac is touching him and things are finally starting to sting. But he doesn’t wince or pull away. He lets Mac dab at his face with the wet cotton. It doesn’t take away the iron on his tongue, or the way his hands shake, or the urge to tear this moment apart, just like he had with the beer bottle, but it cleans the blood away that that will have to suffice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I hurting you?” Mac refuses to see the irony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Dennis whispers, even though it feels like his nerves are raw and screaming. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the soft drag of the t-shirt against his face or because of Mac’s eyes on him, wide and warm and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>worried that it hits like a punch to the kidneys. He doesn’t double over. Mac will stop touching him if he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac will stop touching him eventually. When his face is clean and he starts pretending to be normal again, like this night hasn’t wiped its bloody hands on everything settled in Dennis’ chest. Dennis closes his eyes and wills the moment to last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For once, Dennis doesn’t get what he wants.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>shortest thing i have posted here but i felt like resolving it in any significant way wouldn't fit them. anyone unsatisfied by the end - they sat up for a few more hours, drank themselves to sleep in the lounge chairs by the pool and silently agreed to repress it all. </p><p>i was in a real Mood trying to write this. just want my own richard siken summer.</p><p>kudos and comments are class, i'm @abysmalene on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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